Page 28 of Masquerade

“She did ring me.”

Her mother, a critically acclaimed literary fiction author had issued an ultimatum to her husband on her fortieth birthday; “Either you cease your philandering or you can move out.” He’d decided to stay. The performance of family-staying-together-because-we-really-do-love-each-other was almost as wearing as the performance of happy-family-when-her-dad-was-a-libertine. Kate and Anna’s emotional safety had been collateral damage in both.

“Can’t you tell them you’ve been offered a book contract for your first book with an option for two more?” Her sister was an eternal optimist.

In Kate’s nightmares, she was singed by the flames of her father burning her books.

“And watch the look on their faces—stunned mullet, as in a dead-fish, google-eyed stare. I still have nightmares about that dinner party.”

Her father had handed one of Kate’s first stories to his closest friend, a literary critic, without asking her permission. She’d been eleven. The critic had issued his verdict over dessert.Shows promise but seems obsessed with saccharine-sweet, happily-ever-afters. Her father had led the laughter, while Kate had wished some guardian angel would snap her fingers and make them all disappear.

“That was his my-ego-needs-stroking period.” Anna had multiple labels for their father. The need for ego-stroking had been at the height of his womanising.

“Remember when he found me reading a romance in high school? He couldn’t believe I hadn’t heeded his earlier edicts. He ranted at me for reading rubbish. ‘Romances reinforce outdated stereotypes. My daughters have been taught better.’ He confiscated it, then searched the house for my stash.” Kate’s second, secret life had started soon after.

“His period of disbelief was comparatively short but rugged for his nearest and dearest.” Anna was more forgiving than Kate. Almost as forgiving as their mother, who’d accepted his apologies and taken him back. If Rosamunde Turner ever referred to that time she talked of “creative differences”.

“His doting-family-man was worse.” Kate had hated being trotted out for the mandatory family photo at openings or gala events. She’d made plans to study in Sydney, and Anna had insisted on joining her. When she’d announced she was studying to be a librarian, her father had peppered his farewell with more putdowns of romance novelists as formula-following fools.

“I call his current period attempted-maturity. Honey, you’re being published. You’re good.” Anna’s belief in her was precious.

“It’s still trash. He said I was a blot on the escutcheon.” The old-fashioned insult had made Kate simultaneously want to giggle and roar at him. “As if we had a family history going back generations of pure rather than purple prose.”

“When did he say that?” Her sister sounded like a modern-day Valkyrie preparing for battle.

“The last time I tried to reason with him about romance fiction. My book’s publication coincides with his new play opening,” she groaned. “Or rather Kate Higgins’s book. But if someone recognises me in those publicity shots and reveals I’m his daughter, he’ll be mortified. Let me count the verbs with which he’ll be mortified—embarrassed, shamed, humiliated, not to forget appalled. He’ll fret endlessly about the impact of his low-brow daughter on his standing with the literati.”

“You didn’t know about his play when you signed the contract.” Anna was her staunchest defender.

“He doesn’t believe in coincidences.” Kate pictured again the laughing, circus-clown heads of those long-ago dinner guests taunting her. “I gave up trying to change his mind years ago.”

“Dad’s wrong, honey,” Anna exploded. “He’s always been wrong on this.”

“I agree. But his writing and his reputation matter to him. I respect that.” And she’d made peace with using the pseudonym Kate Higgins rather than her own name.

“Your writing matters. Where’s the respect he owes you?” Anna protested.

“I thought I could hide in plain sight.” Kate wanted to believe she’d be safe behind her different disguises. That she’d be able to spend more time writing.

“You can. You have. No one will link Ms. Dowdy Researcher with Ms. Sexy Higgins. Don’t worry about Dad. He told me I looked good on a billboard. If a man can’t recognise which daughter is which, I think you’re safe.”

“He’s blind when it suits him.” He’d probably applaud Kate’s plan for creating a new identity to photoshop away any family connection. Not that she planned to tell him. “The plan was to be Ms. Dowdy and take Ms. Sexy for an occasional outing. Now, I’m spending days as Ms. Billboard.”

“Liam knows you’re Ms. Billboard and Ms. Dowdy. He’s accepted the need for the disguise to get the job done. You lost everything after Andrew. This project will bankroll you to write. You’ve earned the chance. Using pseudonyms, avatars or blurred images is common practice for authors wanting to preserve their anonymity. If Liam likes romance, it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“I feel exposed,” Kate confessed. Her yearning for the impossible exposed her.

“You can handle a week on the road with a colleague who’ll never be a friend. You’ve done it before. Channel those mandatory acting classes you fought Dad about.”

If only spending time with Liam was that simple.

* * *

Liam needed Niall’ssupport for the impersonation to work. Kate was right. And like Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent, who’d managed to hitchhike a ride on an intergalactic transport carrier when they’d thought they were forever lost in space, Liam jumped at the opportunity to reconnect with his brother. Liam wrestled with opening lines.Hey, I’m on the train, halfway to yours. In the end he called.

“Can I drop in?”

“Begorra. I’m not sure if me body can stand the shock.” Niall sounded wary but willing. “Three sightings of the Mighty Quinn in one week.”

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